


Hell Is Empty

by ClementineStarling



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Delusions, Drunk Sex, M/M, Religious Guilt, Seduction, references to past sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:09:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9122992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: It starts as an itch under his skin and he is negligent enough to ignore it.__Riario is strangely attracted to Zo





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ад пуст](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15552945) by [Leario](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leario/pseuds/Leario)



> unsettled prompted "Zo is actually some sort of very minor demon. This makes all of his interactions with Riario both more heated and more tempting."
> 
> And vice said this wouldn't work because demons must be actually demonic and not disguise themselves as somewhat goofy sidekicks and thus it would be totally disrespectful to our most revered Dark Entities to write a non-demonic character as a demon. So here I am to prove him wrong. By toning down the cultural appropriation of hellish customs to the best of my abilities. And by resorting to cheap tricks of course.
> 
> I hope you're both satisfied with this. 
> 
> To all other potential readers: Yey, so great you dropped in to give this fic a try! <3  
> I guess you should be aware that this a bit dubconnish in places and has some non-graphic but also non-subtle references to past abuse. Also it may not be very respectful of the Catholic faith. Mea culpa.
> 
> I have no idea where (or even if) this would fit somewhere into the canon timeline; I thought that maybe during the events of season 1 Riario got to hang out in Florence a couple of times. So basically I squeezed it in with little regard to plausibility.
> 
> Last but not least, mistakes want to be denunciated. Report them to me and you shall be amply rewarded.

.

It starts as an itch under his skin and he is negligent enough to ignore it. 

Vermin are known to cause discomfort, so why should this particular specimen be any different? Sure, he is pretty, but so are others; Italy's cities are full of handsome men with sultry eyes, who flaunt their sinfulness like whores. Not a day goes by he doesn't receive an immoral offer, mere innuendos for the most part, rarely someone is brazen enough to be overt in their proposal, though the fact they even _attempt_ to seduce him, a Captain General of the Church, proves the state of moral ruin the country has fallen into.

Corruption has become so prevalent Riario ceased to pay it much heed. He isn't indifferent per se – he hasn't forgotten that lust is a sin, much less that sodomy is a crime. His apathy towards the issue doesn't stem from indolence, on the contrary: to award his attention to every nuisance of everyday life would effectively render him useless for his duties, and if Riario aspires to be anything then the very opposite of useless. 

But the man in question isn't just guilty of sins of the flesh, he is also a thief, a fraud, a grave robber, someone who by all right should hang for his crimes not roam free to work his mischief. But Florence is lenient like that, inattentive. 

And thus Riario also turns a blind eye. He would purge the wickedness from Florence's walls without a moment's hesitation if the Holy Father were to grant him the authority – but what would be the point of seeking punishment for a single culprit? Why should he waste his precious time on one man if it wasn't an issue of political importance?

Why indeed, he muses one evening when he finds himself in the same tavern as the artista's entourage and subsequently faced with a demonstration of their depravity. At a time of the day when honest, hard-working people would be grateful to put their head down and get some well-deserved rest, they indulge in drink and merriment, surrounded by scantily dressed women. It's hardly the behaviour of god-fearing men, and yet they seem not in the slightest ashamed. They seek to conceal their disregard for propriety no more than make a secret of their attitudes towards him. Young Nico's glare is as unmistakably hostile as da Vinci's display of unconcern is meant to incur his displeasure. But it's not them who are the source of Riario's vexation but the blatant challenge in their companion's gaze.

Zoroaster stares at him without even aiming for a semblance of subtlety. There is a glint to his eyes that leaves not a shred of doubt about the nature of his intent. It's a dare, a provocation that, sharp and nimble, slips beneath Riario's armour with ease, evoking that same well-known itch he's come to ignore like the discomfort of flea bites; his very skin is crawling with the sensation, and it takes but a glance to know Zoroaster is aware of it.

He flashes him a smile, teeth gleaming in the candle-light. It should by all means be a warning, a sign to escape this establishment while he still can, yet somehow Riario can't bring himself to leave. He's too intrigued by the dynamics of the group, as if they danced a dance he didn't comprehend yet, and only if he followed each step, every touch and move, would he be able to make sense of it. Somehow he is desperate to understand what it means. But if he was truthful, he'd have to admit curiosity isn't the only reason he stays. 

Something is stirring inside him, an appetite that ought to lie dormant unless he's visiting his wife's bed to fulfil a husband's duty. He should not want it but he can't help it either, his heartbeat is quickening as he watches Zoroaster's fingers sprawl over the shapely bottom of a tavern wench. She giggles when he pulls her close in a sudden, passionate move while Riario's mouth goes dry with longing.

He averts his eyes but it's too late, he can't get the picture out of his head, and worse he still can feel Zo's gaze chafing at his skin. 

It's not the first time Zoroaster puts on a show for him. God knows what has encouraged his attempts to seduce him. Perhaps he once caught Riario looking too blatantly at the generous amount of skin his shirt collar revealed. Perhaps he saw him marvel at his shock of lush, dark hair. Perhaps he guessed he was enthralled the half sensual, half mocking curl of his lips, or fantasizing about the promise of wetness beneath, hot and slick and perfect. It doesn't matter. However Riario accidentally betrayed his interest, it hasn't been lost on da Vinci's companion and he is growing bolder in his antics every time they meet. 

He's never been as open in his intent as tonight though. It's almost as if he could see right through Riario's mask of indifference and straight to the dark depths of his soul, to that well-guarded place inside him that's ablaze with forbidden desire. 

The next time Riario dares to glance in his direction, Zoroaster stares right back at him, raising his cup in a mock toast. Riario watches breathless as he sets the cup to his lips and takes a large gulp. He's been too greedy, the wine runs from his lips into his beard, over the exposed line of his throat and down his collarbone, finally disappearing beneath his shirt, but Zo appears as if he couldn't care less. He makes sure, Riario has had a good long look before he puts his hand under the barmaid's chin, tilts her head upwards and no less greedily presses his mouth to her lips.

He doesn't break eye contact while he's kissing her, and Riario can almost taste the wine on his own tongue. Without thinking he feels for the rosary in his pocket, the cool, smooth pearls like a lifeline under his finger tips. _Ne inducas nos in tentationem; sed libera nos a Malo._ The words come as natural to him as ever, but here in this den of iniquity they seem to hold little sway. 

O how arrogant he'd been to believe he could resist the temptation, how foolish to let the desire grow and fester inside him instead of stamping it out the very moment he recognised what it was. He should be ashamed of his pride as much as of his wanton thoughts. 

Riario lowers his eyes and stares intently at his fingers. They are long and strong and roughened by the use of weapons but he can easily imagine them soft and slender and elegant, the hands of a priest, of a scribe, of a painter even. Perhaps he could have been someone else if he had tried to. Not a butcher of the Lord but a kind man, a good man, someone worthy of redemption.

A shadow falls upon his table, blocking out the light of the lamps and candles. Goosebumps erupt on Riario's skin; he feels as cold as if suddenly he's been deprived of God's love itself. There is a chill in the room, or perhaps his blood just runs hotter, because he knows of course who is standing before him, he can feel Zoroaster's gaze like a physical touch. 

“You really shouldn't sit here all by yourself, your Grace. One might come to falsely accuse Florence of being inhospitable towards envoys of Rome.” He winks at him and without asking for permission he slips on the bench across the table and picks up a bite of roast meat from Riario's plate. He's got a rather decent range to choose from, the food has barely been touched. Riario should have been ravenous after a whole day on the road but somehow he's failed to work up an appetite. Or rather: that particular kind of appetite. He'd much prefer watching Zoroaster eat, he thinks when the rascal pops the piece of meat into his mouth, then chews it with abandon. But naturally he can't admit to that. 

“I asked for privacy. I wanted some time for contemplation,” he says instead. And it is true. He asked his men to leave him alone for the evening so he could think or pray or simply enjoy the quiet. At least that was what he told himself at the time. Perhaps it was a lie after all?

Zo ignores the explanation and selects another piece of meat from the plate, a larger chunk this time. “Have you ever gone hungry?” he asks casually, eyes still fixed on the food. The dark line of his lashes is most enticing, Riario realises.

“I've fasted,” he says truthfully. He has. He does. He's always careful not to eat more than is needed to appease his hunger. Gluttony is a sin, he never forgets that.

“It's hardly the same.” Zo chooses a handful of grapes next, followed by a slice of cheese and a couple of olives, and he's consuming all of it with evident relish.

“I suppose it's not,” Riario agrees. This is indeed surprisingly entertaining. He suspects he could watch Zoroaster helping himself to food from his plate all evening without getting bored. 

“Of course there are other things to hunger for,” Zoroaster muses reaching for Riario's cup and Riario lets him have it without as much as raising an eyebrow.

“Are there?” he asks, voice even huskier than usual, while Zo washes down his pilfered share of Riario's food with a generous gulp of wine.

His tongue flicks over his gleaming teeth as though to make sure there are no scraps of meat caught between them and there is something about it that's decidedly not innocent. He leans closer before answering Riario's question with one of his own, his voice lowered conspiratorially: “You know I'm aware of how you've been looking at me, don't you?”  
Riario opens his mouth to protest but Zo cuts him off before he can utter a single word. “There's no use denying it.”

For a second Riario fears – _hopes_ – Zoroaster will reach out and touch his face but then he sits back instead, crossing his arms and looking at him with one of the smuggest expressions Riario has ever seen. 

If for a moment he felt laid bare by his scrutiny, vulnerable even, the display of arrogance brings Riario back to his senses. “You should be more careful, Tommaso Masini,” he says with his usual tone of tempered fury. “Your impudence may well get you into serious trouble one day. I'm sure you wouldn't fancy losing that loose tongue of yours, would you?”

Zoroaster blinks at him, apparently more surprised Riario knows his birth name than by his change of tone, but he is too accomplished a liar to be lost for words for long.  
“I can assure that depriving me of my tongue would be an outrageous waste of talent.”  
When Riario doesn't answer, he adds: “I can show you if you like...”

It takes all of Riario's self-control not to suck in an audible breath. The image Zoroaster conjured up before his inner eye has caused a wave of heat to well up inside him. “You should get out of here if you value your life,” he hisses between clenched teeth, but Zo seems utterly unimpressed by the threat. He just shrugs, picks up another piece of meat, puts it into his mouth with no less enthusiasm than before and gets to his feet, though not without making sure Riario gets another good look.

His fingers brush over the tabletop, a good-bye like a caress, like a promise, and his voice is soft, almost wistful when he says: “You have no idea what you're missing.”

Which could not be further from the truth. Riario has _every_ idea, he's seen it all, depravities that now are flashing before his inner eye in rapid succession, and his mind is only too eager to feature Zoroaster in every scenario it comes up with. No, Riario isn't an innocent, he's been taught from a very young age, and his instruction has been as comprehensive as it's been profound; there's little he doesn't know about _service_. 

He's just not at liberty to seek such pleasures for himself. It's not his place, it never was. He is fated to be the means to an end rather than an end in itself. For nothing this is truer than for sexual relations. How could he ever covet such an act for his own gratification? How could he expect to be forgiven for it? His body and soul have only ever belonged to the Church, not even his wife may lay claim to them, much less he himself. 

If it was ill-advised to stay earlier, not to retire now is madness, but Riario finds himself rooted to the spot more than ever, as if bound by witchcraft. He reaches for his cup, places his mouth over the rim, just where Zoroaster's lips have touched it, and takes a sip. That's how he would taste now, he thinks. Potent and sweet and intoxicating.

He should know better than to drink, wine begets weakness and weakness... weakness always leads to sin.

He has lost track of time and also of the exact number of cups of wine he's had when he stumbles outside to relieve himself. The world has shrunk to a tiny island in the current of history. Florence is a dreamscape, blurred and unreal, as if by accident Riario had found the way to the underworld and then been careless enough to drink of the wrong spring, Lethe not Mnemosyne. 

His fingers are clumsy, it takes a while until he's fumbled open his trousers and he almost curses when he finds himself half-hard, tangible proof for his madness. Involuntarily he touches his cross with his unsullied hand. _Miserere mei Deus et a peccato meo munda me._ Have mercy on me, O God, and cleanse me from my sin.

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself by bracing his hand against a wall, when someone speaks up behind him.  
“You need some help with that?” that someone says and Riario doesn't even have to turn around to see who it is. 

“You really don't know when to leave a man alone, don't you?” he replies. The words come out a bit slurred and not exactly as lofty as he meant them to.

Zoroaster gives a low chuckle. “I can be rather single-minded when I want something.”

Riario closes his eyes in a silent prayer for composure and waits for Zo to leave but naturally he doesn't. He doesn't move at all, Riario can feel his gaze boring into his back. It's not exactly helpful that he's watching but Riario decides he can always kill him later if he feels like it.

So he takes his time, relishing the sense of relief as he empties his bladder. He tucks himself away and straightens his clothes before he turns around.

Zo is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him as if there was nothing more amusing in the world. 

Riario supresses the urge to wipe the smirk off his face. Equanimity is a virtue. “So what is it you want then?”

Zoroaster's self-satisfied grin widens into a toothy smile. “The same you do I'd say.”

Riario makes an impatient sound, half growl, half scoff, and tries to get past him but he's neither counted on Zo's determination nor his speed. He appears to have had a lot less to drink than Riario, or he's simply having a higher tolerance due to practise, because Riario doesn't even see it coming; Zoroaster moves and suddenly he finds himself with his back to the wall, Zo pinning him against the stone with all his weight.

“What for heaven's--” Riario stops himself just in time, he bites his tongue before the blasphemy can escape his lips.

“Heaven's got nothing to do with it,” Zoroaster whispers, too close, much too close. 

“I demand you let me go this instant,” Riario mutters but he doesn't fight nor even struggle; drunk or not, he's been trained as a soldier since childhood, a small-time crook like Zoroaster would be no match for him, and yet he doesn't resist, not when Zo is pressing his lips onto his, not when he's placing his hand on Riario's upper thigh.

“Don't pretend you do not want this”, Zo says after breaking the kiss, when they're both gasping for air. 

Riario has heard that sentence before and it's never been wrong; he's always wanted it – because he is a sinner, because he is weak, because he is too pretty for his own good, boys aren't meant to be alluring, it's his own fault, he brings this upon himself, every time. 

But Zo doesn't do what is to be anticipated, he doesn't press on but takes half a step backwards, and then he smiles, and Riario understands, even before Zo puts his hands flat against Riario's chest and lets them glide downwards and slowly, seductively drops to his knees, that he commands a completely different kind of wickedness: Zoroaster isn't asking for mere compliance, he actually makes him want this, he _wants_ him to want this.

 _No no no_ , Riario thinks. This must not happen. He can handle violence, coercion, blackmail, everything as long as he is compelled to endure it. Pain is good, he deserves pain. It's atonement for his trespasses, it wipes the slate clean. But to have a choice, to do this out of his own free will, that is a thought he cannot bear. It could mean sentencing his soul to eternal damnation.

He looks down upon Zoroaster as he's kneeling before him, hair tousled, eyes glittering – the very image of temptation as he lifts his hands to open Riario's clothes. The rush of arousal is laced with a sense of foreboding this time. There is something about the whole situation he has not yet grasped; it's already lingering somewhere just out of consciousness though, as if it's just slipped momentarily from his mind.

He knows he should pray for strength, _vigilate et orate ut non intretis in temptationem spiritus quidem promptus est caro autem infirma_ , he's repeated the passage from Matthew a thousand times in his head but now its meaning blurs, becomes inconsequential. Others have done this before him, and the Lord is merciful, is he not? He will confess, do penance, acquire a letter of indulgence, so many ways to seek deliverance-- The thoughts are like beads of a rosary, smooth, soothing. 

His flesh has less doubts about this than his mind, his cock springs stiff and ready onto Zo's waiting palm. He wraps his hand around him, clever fingers enveloping him in a practised grip. Just the right amount of pressure. For all his usual self control Riario can't stifle a low moan. He lets his head fall back against the wall when Zo laps at him for the first time. It feels so much better than he anticipated.

The lust is pulling tight in his belly as Zo's lips start to tug at him, gliding over the silky skin of his cock with the sweetest friction, slow slow slow. 

Riario is staring up at the firmament, attempting to rid his mind of every thought and doubt.

The skies are dark over Florence, black as pitch, black as the abyss, and Riario can sense the gaping void underneath, the eternal pits of hell, but Zo's mouth is too sweet to push him away. He cannot bear to look at him though, he just can't. Above them the stars are tiny fires in the night, as if an army of angels has pitched camp on the vast cope of heaven.

Arousal is spiralling inside him as Zoroaster sucks and sucks, licks at him, swirls his tongue about the head of his cock, rolls his balls gently in his fingers. Unsurprisingly he's rather good at this. It doesn't take long until Riario is close, and he can't help to think Zo was right about his tongue, it would be a terrible waste of talent to deprive him of it.

But despite his skill Zoroaster doesn't finish what he started. Just when Riario is convinced he's about to come in a matter of seconds, he lets go of him, leaving Riario's cock bobbing obscenely, desperately in the air. The night is too cool on the sensitive skin after the searing heat of Zo's mouth and Riario wants to protest but his lust-muddled mind is at a loss for words and Zoroaster doesn't wait for him to regain his composure. In an instant he is back on his feet, leaning close to place another open-mouthed kiss on Riario's lips. He tastes strange, metallic, salty, slightly bitter perhaps. Riario couldn't name the exact composition, he has never tasted himself nor anyone else. ( _O he has, a long time ago, how could he forget? How on earth could he forget?_ ) 

The flavour is fading swiftly but it's been enough to make a beastly hunger flare up inside him. Riario buries his hands in Zoroaster's hair to hold him steady and returns the kiss without any semblance of restraint, bruising lips and vicious tongue, a plunder, a rape, and Zo laughs at the onslaught.

“That's it, your Grace,” he says with breathless amusement. “Show me how much you want me.” He brushes his lips almost tenderly against Riario's, whispering: “I'm all yours for tonight if you'll have me.” And Riario realises they have just begun. 

Somehow they make it to the chamber set aside for him. It's a modest room, even for a pious man, hardly fit for Rome's commander in chief, but Riario has never cared much for luxuries and Zoroaster has better things to occupy himself with than ridicule the humbleness of the accommodations. The moment they've closed the door behind them, he's busy tugging at Riario's clothes to get him out of them as fast as possible and soon they're both naked. 

Oddly enough their nudity rather underlines their differences than their similarity. Riario's body is of a noble pallor, lean and hard as though chiselled from marble but there are cuts, bruises that belie the appearance of stone. Zoroaster traces them with his fingers, curious. He himself bears no marks of violence, there are no scars, no wounds, nothing, just smooth, youthful, bronze skin, and Riario touches him with the same marvel, incredulous. Is it truly possible he has never, not even once been punished for his crimes? Not once injured himself working or fighting? It seems so unlikely.

Zoroaster takes a step towards him to interrupt his scrutiny. “There is a time for contemplation, my Lord,” he whispers, “but this is not it,” and indeed Riario stops thinking when Zo licks a wide, wet line along his neck, then fastens his mouth to the sensitive spot above his collarbone. Riario closes his eyes and let him have his fill. He knows Zo is sucking another bruise into his skin, a mark to serve as a reminder of their encounter in the morning, lurid, treacherous, but somehow Riario can't bring himself to care.

When Zoroaster lets go of him to examine his handiwork, Riario takes the opportunity to spin him around and shove him onto the bed, where he comes to lie in a seductive sprawl on the covers, laughing, completely at ease. He's not afraid, not one bit, and perhaps that's foolish of him. Riario is too keenly aware of the monster who's wearing his skin sometimes, that creature of wrath and vengeance, that's never more than a blink away, waiting to be summoned at a moment's notice. Even now he can feel it throb in his blood.

But Zoroaster either doesn't know of the danger he's in, or he doesn't mind, he just lies there, his hand curled around his prick, stroking languidly as if none of this was the slightest out of the ordinary. As if he offers himself up to noblemen and soldiers of Rome every day, 

Riario can't shake the feeling he is missing something, that his judgement is clouded (more than he likes to admit) but he is too drunk on wine and lust to be able to make out what it is. He crawls onto the bed, over Zo, the need to touch like fire in his finger tips. He leans down to take Zo's lips in another kiss and Zo arcs into him, skin against skin. Soon he doesn't know where he ends and Zoroaster begins, they are one flesh – _almost_ – their cocks sliding against each other in attuned perfection. 

Zo moans under him like a whore, so shameless it makes Riario blush and at the same time all the more wanton. He tangles his fingers in Zoroaster's hair and yanks, perhaps to shut him up, perhaps as punishment, but Zo only laughs. 

“So that's how you like it your Grace? A little rough?” He grinds himself up against Riario unabashedly. “You can fuck me if you want.” Then after a moment consideration he adds: “Or if you prefer that, I'll fuck you.”

Riario tightens his grip; he doubts he would last long enough for actual penetration. The mental image alone is enough to make his cock twitch with impatience, leaking clear fluid on Zo's stomach. 

“Later,” he breathes. “You promised yourself to me for the night, didn't you?”

Zoroaster gives him another smug grin as if he'd just won at a game of cards, and Riario wonders dimly why he's so keen on this, on him, surely not for want of other options, but again Zoroaster interrupts his musings.

“I could suck your cock again if you like,” he offers but Riario shakes his head. He wants that, he wants it very much, but there are other things he wants more urgently, things he's never had.

“First I want to see you come,” he says, a confession that takes him somewhat by surprise himself, but he knows it is true when he speaks the words; he wants to see Zoroaster come undone more than anything, catch a glimpse of humanity at the pinnacle of bliss. He imagines giving pleasure must be different from being used for it, or even using others. Riario has fucked people before, of course he has, but sharing pleasure without guilt or force or ulterior motives is new to him. There must be something that still eludes him, some arcane secret of fulfilment, a book of seven seals, and he yearns for its revelation.

Scripture claims there was a time when sensuality wasn't a sin, when man was without shame, unconcerned with questions of good and evil, and Riario hopes to find some echo of it in Zo's gasps of pleasure. There is already an odd sense of harmony in the way they are moving together. Or perhaps this is just the onset of corruption, he muses, when vice and virtue become indistinguishable.

“You think too much,” Zo says as if reading his mind and pulls him into another kiss, and Riario is swallowed up by the sensation. For a while there is nothing but their ragged breathing and the slick sound of wetness and skin. 

He is so hard, it almost hurts. The itch has become an ache, and the friction of their bodies more torment than relief. They're clutching at each other with fingers turned into claws, their kisses hungry, sharp-toothed bites. Riario wants it to end and he can't bear the thought of it, but he also knows he hasn't much choice in the matter. He already feels the pull of oblivion, that one short moment of blissful emptiness that lies at the end of this. His mind is fraying. He fears to go blind and deaf and numb. 

He is close, his crisis merely moments away, when Zoroaster's control is slipping, his countenance changing, an expression of mindless bliss on his face; but then, for a split second, there is something in his eyes Riario hasn't anticipated, a hell fire gleam, bright as starlight but red as glowing embers, and just as he reaches the threshold of orgasm, Riario finally understands.

His infatuation. His inability to withstand temptation.

How didn't he notice earlier? Evil always takes an alluring form. He should have known that Zoroaster is a handsome devil, not just in a metaphorical but in the most literal sense. Of course he is. Da Vinci must get his infernal ideas from _somewhere_. It's seems only natural that hell would send an envoy, a demon to whisper to him at night, trickling his poison into his ear, so sweet and so wicked.

Riario struggles but to no avail; he is caught in the net of his own weakness, and every movement is just tightening the noose. His body is still entrapped, treacherous, rubbing mindlessly against the devil's alluring form, keen on sealing its fate. Zoroaster holds him with inhuman strength, and the moment of clarity passes, is washed away by a wave of pleasure – or perhaps magic, for later, when he wakes with a headache into the bleak light of morning, he will remember nothing of it. 

Instead he will recall the fondness of Zo's smile, how affectionately he brushed a strand of hair out of his face, how softly he kissed him on the lips as they lay entangled on the bed, trying to catch their breath, trying to keeping their hands off each other. Hell has its ways to ensnare the pious. It's them after all who grant the devils their power.

.


End file.
